


House of His Father

by lorenzobane



Category: Shadowhunters
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, Hurt No Comfort, Magnus's past, Manipulation, Parent relationships, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-17 23:53:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14841615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lorenzobane/pseuds/lorenzobane
Summary: Instead of running, the man smiles and looks the boy in the eye. They are identical to the ones the boy sees in the rain puddles.They are his eyes.Or: Asmodeus and Magnus, through the years.





	House of His Father

**August 1238**

**10**

The small boy is smarter than the other street rats. He knows that for a fact. They weep piteously all night, half of them hunched over and deformed with pain, ready to be dragged off into Leper isolation colonies. The other half, stomachs distended, bodies weak and frail, and desperate.

The small boy is smarter than them.

He reminds himself of that as he sneaks away, the dark cover of night helping the other street boys miss that he has disappeared to the pier. The small boy discovered early, the dock is where the international traders dock, too afraid to step foot on rugged and frightening earth. They’ve heard already, the soil here is damned, only the doomed live here.

His stepfather had been one of the few to explore the small island. He ran into the boy’s mother at the creek a ways down, married her and settled in an unforgiving land.

At least, the small boy has never found forgiveness here.

Before he left his home, with his two parents putrefying inside, he took everything of value. The meger silver they owned gave him bread for two weeks. His step-father’s beautiful, Dutch clothes, two more after that.

And his mother’s silk scarf passed down from his grandmother, continues to provide for him.

He carefully ties a delicate silk rope around his demonic eyes that he cannot hide, before crouching submissively at the edge of the docks.

“Please! Help! I’m blind!”

At the end of the night, when his knees are bruised with kneeling, and his eyes ache from being forced shut for hours, he gathers his money carefully and disappears again.

He buys bread for three days. It’s stolen from him in less than one.

 

**September 1239**

**11**

The small boy is kneeling at the dock again. He takes deep breaths, shuddering and almost hysterical, the passersby give him more money than usual, but he doesn’t notice. He feels power lurk under his skin, agitated in a way it has never been before.

By now the small boy had figured out that he can move objects, if he wishes to. That he can burn his enemies, when he wants to.

And sometimes, he really wants to.

Sometimes, he does.

No one steals bread from him anymore.

He breathes deeply, trying to get his power under control when a low, deep voice cuts through his thoughts.

“Hello, little one. Will you take that scarf off for me?”

The boy shakes, but his hands move against his will. His tiny arms quake with the effort, trying desperately to slow the movement of his arms, but he can’t. The man’s smooth words command his muscles.

The man carefully helps the boy unwind the scarf from around his eyes, revealing startling golden-green cat eyes.

Instead of running, the man smiles and looks the boy in the eye. They are identical to the ones the boy sees in the rain puddles.

They are his eyes.

“Why are you hiding such a beautiful birthright, little one?”

The boy opens his mouth to speak, and instead feels tears pour from his now opened eyes. “My mother said I had a rakshasa in me.”

The man kneels down onto the floor, his rich, darkly colored pants stained with dirt. The boy feels an almost desperate urge to lay on the floor instead, to give the man’s knee somewhere to rest.

He reaches out for the boy, face stained with ash and sweat, and gently says, “Do you know what rakshasa are, my beautiful boy?”

The boy shakes his head; eyes still wet with tears.

“My darling, rakshasa, and demons, are merely creatures who determine their own fates.”

The boy stares at him, barely hearing a word beyond the eyes, matching and glowing in the early evening light. He’s never seen anyone with eyes like his before.

The man, unconcerned with his lack of answer, continues, “Would you like a chance to determine yours?”

“My own, what?” The boy asks, confused.

The man laughs, rich and mesmerizing, “Your fate. Now, what’s your name?”

The boy choked, his throat suddenly dry as he realizes with horror, that he has no idea. No one has said his name in over a year, and it simply disappeared from his mind.

The man notices without the boy saying anything.

“You are my son,” the man says without hesitation, before offering his hand for the boy to grab. “And you are the greatest of my creations. I will call you Magnus.”

The boy nods blindly and reaches for his father.

 

**May 1253**

**15**

 

Magnus stares out the window, his gaze landing on the Lord’s daughter. Her hair is bright gold, and her skin as white as milk- pure and unplowed. Magnus watches, rapt attention, as she carefully holds her basket.

He sighs.

“Still pining over the Lord’s daughter?”

Magnus jumps and immediately turns his gaze back to the book his father had brought him.

“Of course not, father. I was studying,” Magnus says, gently indicating to his book.

His father smirks, “Is that right? I had no idea that Aristotle was so… Enrapturing.”

Magnus refuses to blush. “Well, he did say that ‘hope is a waking dream.’”

Asmodeus looks at Magnus, his eyes amused, “Be that as it may, I have a new task.”

Magnus looks up eagerly. His father’s tasks frequently involve traveling, his father ripping holes, in reality, itself to take Magnus around the world and back.

Magnus wonders if there will ever be a time when his father’s fingertips aren’t the answer to his every desperate need.

“This time will be different, my beautiful boy,” Asmodeus starts, moving close to Magnus and running a soothing hand through his mop of thick black hair. “Just remember-”

“As long as I make you proud, I will always be loved,” Magnus finishes. An edict he knows by heart. Truer than anything he’s ever known.

Asmodeus smiles, small and happy, “I can’t imagine a day when you disappoint me. You, my child, are the only one who has ever deserved to share my crown, and my legacy.”

Magnus can’t help himself, he preens, delighting in his father’s praise. He ducks his head as his father places a tender kiss on his forehead.

“And you never will, Father.”

Asmodeus smiles, “So, you’re up to a new task?”

Magnus nods, frantic to prove to his father that he is worth and capable. “Anything you desire. Is it another unique ingredient?”

Magnus hunted for nearly three months for the exact blooming flower that Asmodeus had requested, anything grander than that would be easy.

“I’ll be joining you on this one,” Asmodeus replies. He twists his fiery red magic into a swirling vortex that Magnus has never been able to replicate.

Magnus shakes his head, “I’m certain that won’t be necessary.”

Asmodeus chuckles, “I know, Magnus. I just want to watch.”

Magnus beams, there are few things in life that he loves more than showing his father how smart and powerful he is. Few things he loves more than reminding his father that he _made the right choice._

What Magnus says, is, “Of course, I always welcome your company.”

Magnus glanced around when they reached their destination. It is a quiet village. Magnus glances up at the sky and realizes it is still day-time, indicating that he’s still somewhere in Europe. The sickening perfume of rotting flesh and human feces permeates the air.

The swirling vortex closes behind his father with a snap of his long fingers.

“Is there something special about this village?”

Asmodeus leans against his cane; he looks casual and blank, the way he has looked for most of Magnus’s life. Unchanging, unyielding, a God to Magnus’s irreligious mind.

“I need you to destroy it.”

Magnus looks blankly at his father for a moment, waiting for him to clarify. Asmodeus says nothing and stares impassively back.

“What?”

Asmodeus gestures, “This town. I want it gone. I want every man, woman, and child in this village dead.”

Magnus stares blankly, confused and bewildered. Unbidden, frightened tears start to well in in his eyes, “Father. I can’t!”

“Shh,” Asmodeus starts towards him, wiping the tears streaming from his face. “I know. You’re my good son, so gentle, yet so powerful.” He continues to wipe the tears from Magnus’s face as he holds him close, “I’ll tell you what, my beautiful boy, if you destroy this village, the surrounding five villages will be protected. Never hurt by disease or war, this area will be peaceful if you do this for me.”

He ends his sentence by carefully carding through Magnus’s hair. He leans into it, desperate for comfort.

“Father…”

“I know,” Asmodeus says, his soothing voice easing Magnus’s fraying nerves, “I know. But think of how many lives you’ll save, my darling _hero_. Five villages, and all of their children, and grandchildren, generations saved, thousands born because you did this one little favor for me.”

Magnus looks out at the village. They are surrounded by pasture, and in the distance, he sees the Lord’s tower.

“And the Lord?”

Asmodeus shrugs, “Kill him too.”

Magnus gently opens his palm, blood red magic oozing through his pores. He takes a deep breath and slams his hand deep into the soft ground by his feet.

He hears the screaming as soon as he starts, and watches distantly as his magic curls around the ankle of a young woman who ran out of her house at the sound of the noise. The magic curls higher and higher until it reaches her inner thigh, and then it pulls her down sharply, she screams as she’s pulled into the raging inferno.

The agony echos around him in technicolor, he can taste their pain, rich and burnt on his tongue.

And, as soon as it starts, it stops.

The screaming ends, the village is quiet.

Then Magnus crumples to his knees, his hands empty of magic while he shakes. He feels his father stand next to him, placing a hand on Magnus’s hair as he kneels by his side. He can’t help himself; he turns to bury his face in his father’s muscular thigh, letting tears fall as his father gently pets the side of his head.

 

**November 1259**

**21**

“Good job,” Asmodeus says. The village around him is in flames.

His father asked him to destroy this village in exchange for saving another, the one with the pretty blond girl Magnus has been pining over for years. The stench of blood and the mangled carcasses of people lay around them, ripped open and leaking internal organs over the dark ground.

Magnus vomits at the sight.

“Now, now,” Asmodeus replies, to Magnus’s violent and loud retching. “Be a good sport. You’re improving so quickly, Magnus. Soon we’ll be out of training ground.”

Magnus looks at him with wide eyes, “This is training?”

Asmodeus chuckles goodnaturedly, “Of course it is. Soon, I’ll be preparing you to serve as my second in command. Not just an average Lieutenant, but my brave and brilliant General.”

Asmodeus looks off at the sunset, the land spreading around him like maiden’s legs.

“We will have it all, my beautiful boy. We will lay claim to everything.”

Magnus nods and swallows against the thick lump in his throat. He realizes exactly one thing in this moment.

He needs to banish his father.

**Author's Note:**

> I AM SO EMO ABOUT MAGNUS AND HIS FATHER!! SO EMO!!! 
> 
> Anyway, come say hi to me on tumblr @lorenzobane if you're also emo about this father/son duo


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